


the river is a cradle

by alongwinter



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Everything Hurts, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Older Stiles Stilinski, Original Character Death(s), Stiles Leaves the Pack, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 20:39:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13597938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongwinter/pseuds/alongwinter
Summary: “I’ve never been alone before.” He paused, taking a shaky breath, fingers moving against the cross of the H. “Not really, anyway. Except for now.”





	the river is a cradle

The road to the makeshift cemetery is long, wound through overgrown trees and dirt roads that lead to nowhere but empty fields and secret hiding spots for animals. It was almost ominous and threatening in the ways that it made no sense, if Stiles thought about it too long. But he did what he was asked, what was implied during a off hand discussion before everything went absolutely wrong. No one else knew where it was, and maybe that was selfish, but Stiles spent too long not doing what he wanted to even bat an eye at their fury. They didn’t have a right.  

He clears his throat as he parks his old and rusted Jeep on the end of a makeshift road paved by rocks and wolves feet. He feels at home, even when his lungs disappear and he struggles to reach for the handle. A moment is all he needs, to get his footing or change his mind, he doesn’t know but the heavy feeling on his chest is suffocating and he’s not sure he can do this.

Stiles is a grown man now but it feels like he’s nine again and burying the loss of his mother under loads of laundry and stacks of bills his father won’t pay. He can almost smell the spices of the whiskey if he focuses hard enough. Besides that, though, he can smell the pine and the dirt and the crisp bite of a chill in the air. It envelops him in an embrace, leading him to the door handle and down the beaten path before he even registers what’s happening. It hurts in a familiar way.

He walks for what feels like hours, his cheeks numb from the cold and he sees Derek in the corner of his eye, shaking his head at Stiles’ lack of winter gear. Snorting, he shakes his head in disbelief before he sees it, his bones singing in agony at the familiar spot. He leans down in front of the tree, etched with names of children who have no idea, who walk hand in hand and immortalize their love by carving into the bark. One name stands out though, the pointed curve of the D too familiar to be mistaken for anyone else. His heart stutters and aches.

He sits, crossing his legs and picking the too-tall grass at the base of the tree. It’s therapeutic, he thinks, to kill something and be dying himself at the same time. The dryness returns to his throat again and he clears it. No matter how many bottles of whatever he drinks, the thirst for something he doesn’t understand still lingers. He turns, facing the river behind him. It was Derek’s favorite spot, his get away place when things got too hard or too heavy. Stiles thinks he sees the appeal.

“I think it was always meant to be like this,” Stiles sighed, staring into the water. It rippled under his gaze, running from something terrifying and unfathomable, just like him. The water was murky and unapproachable, and he hoped he looked the same. It wasn’t easy, especially after everything, to be this vulnerable.

He heard Derek grunt in question.

“To be tragic. Everyone is built and made for something, maybe we were just here to take the weight of it all. Well,” Stiles pauses, considering, “that doesn’t really make sense, I don’t think.”

Derek was quiet behind him, seemingly waiting for him to continue. It was almost eerie, but Stiles took comfort in the static of the silent lull. There was always too much noise, before. He hasn’t felt the need to fill the gaps and the voids in a while, his mind retreating in on itself months ago. Stiles was nearly unrecognizable in the quiet and the grief.

“My mom used to say that. That we were all built for a reason, a sole purpose.” Stiles runs a hand down his face, “I think we, you and i, were built for sadness, to be broken apart again and again, waiting to be remade into something new.”

Seeing Derek adjust his position in the corner of his eye, Stiles thinks of how perfect that half-assed analogy works for the man. He thinks of Paige, the fire and Kate and her murderous hands touching someone so pure. He’s surprised she didn’t burn. But, then again, she had a gift for turning her fate around onto others. It was more than she deserved.

Stiles figures he’s different, gifted in the way he tends to be destroyed by his own hands and not others, like Derek. He always had someone in his corner, at least one person to stand beside him and use as a rock instead of falling apart. Derek always had no one but himself. He understands that now.

Turning suddenly, he watches Derek disappear as he faces him directly, another hallucination in the wake of his loneliness. He thinks its cruel, really, being doomed to a life of glimpses and fleeting sounds. It’s unfair in the ways he’ll never look at him again. Reaching a hand out, he traces the letters of both names on the makeshift headstone, watching the wood turn lighter at his harsh touch. His heart breaks again, a deadly weight shifting deeper into his bones.

“I’ve never been alone before.” He paused, taking a shaky breath, fingers moving against the cross of the H. “Not really, anyway. Except for now.”

He laughs, a choked and broken sound that would make his mother cry as his tears well up for the millionth time. Seeing Derek’s name written against the wood is almost otherworldly, almost unbelievable except that he saw the tragedy happen himself. Derek was always untouchable to him, immortal in previous escapes, broken and bruised but alive repeatedly when threats came. Stiles never should have made him come back to Beacon Hills all those years ago.

“It hurts,” he breathes out, his lungs shaking, “It hurts in the worst ways, watching everyone continue their lives when I’ve lost mine.”

He thinks of Scott and his kids, thinks of persistent calls and questions of why ‘Uncle Stiles’ hasn’t come around in awhile, thinks of abandonment and the loss of childhood memories. It makes him feel less guilty for shutting himself off from everyone, but it still hurts to hear their voices and the patter of their feet when the messages come.

Everything, anymore, reminds him of what he’s lost and given up. He wonders, when he’s feeling dark and alone and on the verge of losing himself, what Derek’s last thought was as the house fell apart around him. The flames licked up his spine, he knows, as Derek sheltered their daughter from the blaze. Stiles knows it must have been different from the inside, this time.

He turns and the river looks like a cradle, begging for his allegiance and offering a one-way ticket to paradise. Earlier, the spot was quiet and soothing, but the roaring of the water against rocks now sounds suspiciously like their daughter calling him from a place he can’t touch. He aches to hold her again, to feel her hair between his fingers as he brushes it from her forehead, to hear her giggle as he tells a dumb joke, to just feel her presence in the room with him once more, that weighted comfort that she’s really there.

The willow tree’s root dips its toe in the water as Stiles watches, it’s branches an open arm of invitation. It’s so cold and he’s never felt so quenched. Despite everything, he decided he wasn't a good swimmer.   


**Author's Note:**

> i don't know where this came from and i think i surprised myself writing this. despite how short it is, it hurts. but if anyone is interested, i listened to [this song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sf6mkYz4mx0) if you'd like, leave a kudos on your way out!


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